Perfect World
by Here Though You've Forgotten
Summary: My tale is tragic, yet deliriously happy, and in a perfect world that happiness would have continued, a fairy tale of the prince and princess of Brooklyn....... But we dont live in a perfect world
1. Chapter 1

The tale I will tell is not a happy story. There is a prince and a princess, battling evil, side by side. The dark lord comes and tries to kill the prince. He wants to take the princess, and carry her off to his palace. Like in all fairy tales, the prince fights bravely with the dark lord, along with his kind allies who like him, want to rid the world of evil. This is a tale of a handsome prince, defending his land. his love for the beautiful princess obliterating all thoughts of his own well being.

My tale is much like the fairy tales told to children. It has all the necessary elements of a classic tale, an evil villain, a dashing young Prince; he is lean and muscular, with blonde hair, and deep grey eyes. The tale also involves a fair lady, who rises above her lowly birth and troubled past. This lady is beautiful, or so the prince tells her,with rich auburn locks, and piercing green eyes. A handful of noble knights, handsome and strong, run about rescuing damsels in distress from the clutches of the enemy. What this story lacks is a happy ending.

When this tale is concluded, there is no happily ever after, no defeat of the dark lord, no riding into the sunset. At the end of this tale there is only me, broken and desolate, my heart shattered beyond repair.


	2. Chapter 2

I will always remember the day I met my prince. We did not meet in a romantic setting, with candles and roses. There was no grand ball held for him to choose a girl. I met my prince immediately following the most tragic event of my life.

Until I was thirteen, I had lived a wonderful, if sheltered life. I had wonderful parents who loved me, an older sister, and a brother who lived far away in Chicago. Though they often teased me about being the baby, the three of us were very close. My father wrote headlines for the New York World, and my mother sewed clothes for my sister and me. We were not rich in any regard, but when my mother found time to take in washing for other people in our apartment complex, we got by.

We were as happy as we could be, until the trolley strike. The city's trolley workers were underpaid, and worked in very dangerous conditions. So they decided to go on strike. Unfortunately, the strike went badly. The strikers became violent when no one listened to their demands. They began attacking co-workers who didn't join the strike, and the police officers who were called in to protect them. Before long, a large-scale riot was under way.

My father was attacked as he walked to work one day. A police man mistook him for a trolley striker as he was pushing his way through the picket lines to get to his office. By the time the officer realized his mistake; my father was dead.

My mother took the news very hard. For the first week after returning from school to learn of my fathers death, My sister was the main provider for our family. My mother fled to her room, crying. I heard her constant wails, but never saw her face until his funeral the next week. At the funeral, my mother sobbed harder than she ever had. When the casket closed, her tears stopped. I never saw her cry again.

In the months that followed, my Mom took in every bit of work she could. She washed clothing for the whole apartment complex, sewed clothing for our neighbors' grandchildren, and ran errands for the elderly man who lived upstairs. My sister, Julia quit school and began working as a newsie. When the newsies went on strike a few weeks later, she found another job as a flower seller. Experience told Julia to stay as far away from strikes as she could. Every night, my mom and sister returned home later and later. But no matter how hard they worked, there was never quite enough money to buy food, and pay the bills.

My Mom ate less and less, telling me and Julia that she had already eaten, was eating at a friends house, or some similar lie. We saw through them all. Since my father's death, Mom had no friends. They were kind and sympathetic when the funeral rolled around, and for a week or so after, but when the rent check came, when there wasn't enough food, and we were starving, they were nowhere to be found. We knew that Mom wasn't eating, but what could we say? She had taught us not to question her.

Six months after my Dad's death, my Mom got sick. She was starving to death and couldn't work. Julia and I forced her to eat, but it wasn't enough. She had gone back to working as a newsie, and also sold flowers at night while I stayed home and cared for Mom, but it wasn't enough.

A month after she fell ill, my Mom died. My brother came and paid for the funeral. While I was grateful for his kindness, Julia was resentful.

She pounded the walls, screamed, sobbed and tore her hair. "WHY NOW? WHY NOW? WHY DOES HE CARE NOW? WHERE WAS HE A MONTH AGO? WHERE WAS HE WHEN DAD DIED? WHERE?" Julia's wild screams turned to a desperate whisper as she sobbed facedown on her bed. "_Why didn't he help when it mattered?"_

Julia had always been the dramatic one, the bold one. Her emotions were always at surface level. She sobbed in her room for days, just like Mom had. I also grieved the way my Mother had, but I learned a different lesson. I saved my tears for the dead of night when Julia slept. Though on the inside, I grieved, I let no one see it.

After the funeral, my brother went back to Chicago. He wanted so much to help us, but he was no better off than we. He worked in a factory, and was paid next to nothing. For a few days after he left, my sister was inconsolable. Nothing could convince her to leave her room. Then I awoke one morning and she was gone.

There was a note on her bed, addressed to me. It read:

_My beloved sister, _

_I am so sorry for leaving you. I apologize for being inconsiderate of your feelings and not realizing that you are grieving too. I know that we should be able to get through this together. In a perfect world, we would, and we would grow closer in the process. We would beat the odds and rise to the top. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger! right? In a perfect world, yes. In a perfect world you wouldn't be reading this letter, Neither of our parents would have died, and our brother would live here with us. We would both be in school and I would have suitors begging for my attention. _

_Sorry if I am bursting your bubble, but we don't live in a perfect world. Trying to stay together would kill us. I need to survive the only way I know how. I am so sorry that I cant be there for you. You will never be far from my thoughts, and will always be in my prayers. _

_All my love, _

_Julia_

For the first time since my father's funeral, I cried. For three days I didn't leave Julia's bed. I neither slept nor ate, like there was anything to eat anyway. On the fourth day, I dried my tears, put on my boots and coat, the only items the landlord had left us, and slipped away from my home, never to return.

I tried my hand at begging, but was only scoffed at. a week later, My stomach and pockets empty, I lay down to sleep on the side of the street. I was too tired to care about the disgusted looks people cast my way, or the fact that I was lying down in a mud puddle, I fell asleep.

I awoke with a start, and looked up into the most beautiful grey eyes that I had ever seen…


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: i'm too lazy to put a disclaimer read the previous one.

I blinked, sure that I was hallucinating, for the gorgeous blue eyes I was staring into, did not seem to be part of a body. I blinked again, and my vision came into focus. I was laying on the ground, completely soaked in mud. I had fallen asleep in a puddle and consequently was very wet. oh another thing, a boy was leaning over me.

Though I could now see the rest of the boy, his eyes were the feature I noticed first. but then again, I wasn't staring for long. Days without food had left me very weak, and upon waking up, I promptly passed out.

When I awoke some time later, I was surprised to see that the boy was still there. Not only was he there, but was sitting beside me, absentmindedly stroking my hair. The simple gesture made me want to cry. My mother used to sit with me for hours, and stroke my hair, while I spilled out my problems to her. Her soothing voice used to calm me, and help me sort through my emotions. It felt so good to have someone care enough t to do that.

No one had done that since my father died, when my mother stopped having the time to spend sitting with me, or talking with me, rehashing the day's events. Since her death, my mother had been worried about making ends meet, whether we would have enough food, enough left over to pay the rent, any spare time meant another job to fill it.

No matter how much I waned to, I didn't cry. Since Julia left, I had wanted to cry every moment. I regretted burying my emotions under a calm and relaxed face. Since Julia left, I had wanted to shriek and shout, moan about the unfairness of life, and sob until my tears ran dry. I wanted to cry but I had forgotten how.

At last I forced myself to sit up, only to have a gentle hand push me back down. It was the boy. He whispered to me, "It's ok, I wont hurt you. My friend is going to get you food. Don't try and sit up until you have some food."

His gently voice warmed my frozen heart. Right there, I began to fall in lobe with him. I didn't know anything about this boy; I didn't even know his name. But it didn't matter. The gentle concern in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. But his eyes also held intensity, and a danger that I didn't understand. His eyes held too much worry for a teenager. They made him seem old beyond his years.

He didn't know my story or me. He had no idea how I came to be on the streets, starving, filthy, sleeping in the mud. But yet, this boy was the first person I saw in days that didn't shrink back from me in disgust, as even other street people had done. I fell in love with his compassion. He had no reason the stop and take care of me. He did it out of the kindness of his heart.

Feeling a little stronger, I voiced the question that had been on my mind since I woke up. "Thank you for helping me, but Who Are You?"….


End file.
